


Shhh... My Common Sense is Tingling

by AngeNoir



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domesticity, Dumb Genius, Gen, Genius Tony Stark, M/M, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13833423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: All Steve wanted to do was lie down, let his wounds finish healing, hope his husband hadn't noticed the pain he was in. Instead, he gets to go find out what the hell his husband did to the house while he was gone.





	Shhh... My Common Sense is Tingling

**Author's Note:**

> Alphabet Challenge! Letter C, so I picked "Common Sense" as the prompt for letter C.

Steve winced a little as Clint set the Quinjet down a little bumpily. They were all punch-drunk - he, Sam, and Clint - and so making a bit more mistakes and twists than they would if they were on top of things. Steve was in his civvies, considering that he’d been shot three times and Tony always flipped out when Steve came back with bullet holes in his clothes. Not that Tony wouldn’t _eventually_ see the bullet holes, but still. Steve just wanted to sleep, and if he walked into the building with bloody holes in his clothing - even if the holes were (mostly) closed - Tony would not let him lie down and rest until he’d thoroughly checked Steve over.

 

So. Civvies. And wincing, when the Quinjet had a bump as it landed.

 

The doors to the tower slid open, and it showed just how tired Steve was that he walked in and took more than a second or two to realize something was wrong.

 

“Jarvis?” he asked a little plaintively. “Does the bedroom look like this?”

 

“Not yet, though sir is making his way down the hall as we speak.”

 

Great. Licking his lips, Steve considered just going to bed and dealing with whatever the hell his idiot genius had decided to do tomorrow morning - but he didn’t really want to have to wake up and figure out what the hell his husband had done to the walls. Sighing, he fought back a wince and made his way towards the hall.

 

“Holy shit,” he heard behind him, Clint’s stunned gasp echoing in the ruins.

 

The walls and ceiling were little better in the hallway, and as he followed the bend of it he came across his husband, hair greasy and more than a little limp, ratty shirt stained and dusted with plaster. At least he has goggles on, Steve thought faintly, as he cleared his throat loudly.

 

Tony didn’t seem to notice; he was hunched over, a screwdriver in his mouth, fingers digging into the wall, eyes almost manic as they fixed determinedly on some socket wiring or something. Steve was willing to bet Tony was not operating on a decent amount of sleep (Tony never could sleep well without Steve, and Steve had been gone almost a full week longer than the mission was supposed to be). Only that could explain the redness in Tony’s eyes and the vaguely puffy, raccoon-like hollows under Tony’s eyes.

 

Clearing his throat a second time, Steve leaned against what remained of the wall (really, just a support pillar; most of the drywall was torn away) and knocked on the wood gently. “Hey, Tony.”

 

Tony’s body went tight and tense, and for a heartbeat he didn’t move, hair and fingers quivering and shaking. Then he whipped around, that manic gaze fixed with laser-like intensity on Steve. “Steve!” he exclaimed, voice muffled from around the screwdriver. “You’re back?”

 

“I’m back,” Steve replied, sighing a little. “I’m very tired. What happened here?”

 

Tony spat out the screwdriver, dropping it into the filthy toolbox that was half-hidden underneath discarded bits of wood and wiring. “Are you hurt?” he asked, words almost slurring together though it was clear Tony hadn’t been drinking. “You’re holding yourself in that way that means you’re hurt and you’re wearing civilian clothes. And Jarvis tattled to me. You really ought to stop asking Jarvis not to tell me.”

 

Steve closed his eyes, trying to gather patience, and finally managed to do nothing more than let out a soft, exasperated huff of air. “I’m not perfect, but I’m not dying, either. You know it just takes a day or two to heal up. You haven’t really answered my question, though - what the hell happened here?”

 

Tony looked around at the wall, some places very precisely and neatly removed, other sections wholly ripped from the wall and thrown onto the floor. Plaster was stuck in Tony’s beard, flecks of it on his cheeks, clumps of it in his hair. Still, Tony smiled, a bit uncertain and weak. “I was trying to - nothing much. Just fixing things.”

 

Steve, hearing the slur, seeing Tony start to wobble a little, almost like an afterthought, correctly realized that Tony wasn’t going to stay vertical very long. Putting a hand out to steady Tony, and to gently draw him in (pull him away from the wall and the power tools), Steve murmured, “What needed this much fixing, baby? I can see the insides of our home. This is a lot more than just picking out a sofa.”

 

“The light wouldn’t turn on!” Tony said suddenly, triumphantly. “The light - the light! It wouldn’t turn on. I flicked the switch and poof. Nothing. Something’s up with the wiring. So, trying to find the problem.”

 

“Isn’t this something Jarvis can do?” Steve asked, confused.

 

Insistently, Tony shook his head. “No, he can test that the wires are in place, but he can’t actually test for the flow of electricity to see where the short or tear or issue is.”

 

“Mmm,” Steve hummed, tugging Tony closer and quietly wrapping his arms around Tony’s shoulders. “The light that wouldn’t turn on - it wouldn’t, by any chance, be the light in the living room that sits next to the rocking chair, would it?”

 

Steve felt Tony stiffen in his arms, and then his husband tilted his head back with a suspicious frown. “It was that light. How did you know?”

 

Leaning down, Steve pressed a kiss to the tip of Tony’s nose. “That light bulb? It was shorted out by Thor a few days before we went on our trip. Since normally only Thor uses that rocking chair during movie nights, and considering that the mission was coming up, I didn’t have time to go out and buy a bulb and replace it. I thought it would be fine.”

 

Tony licked his lips, eyes wide and incredulous. “You - you knew there was a problem?” he asked.

 

“You are the smartest idiot I know,” Steve said fondly, sighing a little. “I’m really tired. I think we should just put this away for now. We’ll fix all this tomorrow - us, together.” It would take a whole lot of drywall, plaster, and paint, but Tony didn’t complain or point it out; instead, he slumped a little and scuffed the ground with his foot.

 

“You okay, baby?” Steve asked.

 

Tony shrugged, a little listless. “I wanted the room to look nice when you guys came back. I tried - I just wanted it to look warm. Welcoming. I wanted to put on a movie that we all like, and just watch and relax, and be inviting and warm…”

 

Gently, Steve pressed his lips to the crown of Tony’s head. “That was really sweet, Tony. I’m so lucky to have you.”

 

Later that night, Steve stared up blankly at the dark ceiling, Tony snuffle-snoring next to him in bed. It would easily take a week, maybe even two, to fix all the walls, tie all that wiring back where it was supposed to go - all that time to fix something that had been torn apart because Tony decided to check the wires instead of the lamp.

 

Tony really was one of the dumbest geniuses Steve had ever faced.


End file.
